


Contamination

by chelonianmobile



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Kink Meme, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5200352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelonianmobile/pseuds/chelonianmobile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Decided to bring this over from ffnet and the meme. Contains no actual underage sex, whatever Arthur thinks, but I'm using the tag anyway for discussion of it which might be upsetting. Arthur would never harm a child, especially not Alfred, but he's having trouble convincing himself of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to say this is a highly personal fic for me. I'm a woman and was a teenager when I started getting a similar form of obsessive fears, but it's probably not that different. Mine did come on this suddenly, and I don't know if this is usual, but it's quite likely it had been lying dormant for some time beforehand. I wish it had taken me less than two years to find out what the obsessive fear issue was, especially since once I did know the problem decreased significantly. Several years later I saw this kinkmeme request for a depiction of OCD which wasn't just hand-washing, though that's part of it, and a safe way to express myself beckoned. If you have this issue, it's not uncommon and it can be helped.

Much as he tried to forget it in the months to come, he could pinpoint the exact moment it started. Alfred had just looked up in exactly the wrong - or right - way, and the sun from Arthur's living room window gleamed off his hair and the rims of his glasses and he gave Arthur that stupid little smile, and Arthur felt his heart flutter even as his stomach tightened.

"Something wrong?"

"N-no, I don't think so ... just a stomach cramp," Arthur excused himself, looking away and flushing slightly pink. He looked back at Alfred, whose brow had creased slightly in bewilderment, and found himself missing the smile. _A face that lovely should never be sad,_ he found himself thinking.

He'd thought the same thing before, centuries ago, but with a decidedly different tone. Last time, he'd been patching up the infant Alfred's scraped knee and comforting the little boy with a hug. Now, he was blinking like a lovestruck teenager at Alfred - at his _baby brother,_ his own little boy ...

"Well, it's been lovely seeing you, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Arthur said faux-brightly, standing up. "Shall I get your coat?"

"Wait, what? Geez, this is sudden - did I do something wrong?" Alfred objected.

"No, no! It's just ... you were right, I am feeling a bit off-colour."

Alfred peered at Arthur through his glasses. "Well, you do look a bit pale and sweaty - are you feverish?" He extended a hand to feel Arthur's forehead, and Arthur swatted it away.

"Careful there, it might be catching! I don't want you coming down with something. The world economy's in an unstable enough state without you getting sick."

"Hey! ... Well, good point. I should be going, in that case. Hope you feel better soon - if you're not okay by tomorrow I'll bring you some fruit or something," said Alfred, shrugging into his leather jacket. Arthur tried to keep his eyes off the way Alfred's muscles moved under his T-shirt, guiltily remembering the days when Alfred was a tiny pudgy little thing who could fit easily in Arthur's arms. "I guess you won't want me to hug you goodbye."

Arthur wanted nothing more, but restrained himself, showing Alfred out with a stiff wave from the front doorstep. Once Alfred was in his car and driving away, Arthur ran up the stairs and just made it to the bathroom in time to drop to his knees in front of the toilet and vomit up the cream tea he'd eaten.

He climbed unsteadily to his feet, stared into the mirror, wild-eyed and pale, and said dully "What the hell is wrong with me?"

He couldn't believe himself. He'd raised Alfred from a tiny child, he fondly remembered the days of Alfred's infancy. And now he was leering at the poor boy like some dirty old man? Poor naive Alfred, who'd lived several human lifetimes but never seemed to truly grow up? He was barely more than a child! Arthur felt sick again. How could this have come on so suddenly? ... Oh God, _had_ it come on suddenly? This could have started at any time. He found himself thinking over every time he'd touched or held Alfred, even back in the earliest days of the colony, raking over every detail for anything untoward. He couldn't remember having thought anything inappropriate about the child, but surely his feelings couldn't have changed this quickly. His poor little boy, what might he have _done?_

No, he couldn't think like that. It was okay. It was all going to be okay. Sure, it wasn't something he'd expected and it was hardly going to be fun, and he wasn't entirely sure how he'd cope. But he could control it. Stiff upper lip and all that. A gentleman could control himself. If he'd lasted this long without doing anything, he could last forever. Now the problem would simply be ensuring nobody ever found out.

He stripped off and turned on the shower, setting it to cold. _No, wait, not cold,_ he thought to himself, turning the dial. _Hot. As hot as I can stand. I need to scrub this away._

He tried to put it out of his mind for the rest of the afternoon, distracting himself with a copy of _The Hobbit_ , but found himself taking another hot shower before bed, and it took him a very long time to get to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn came, and Arthur struggled out of bed, yawning. He'd held off on falling asleep as long as he could, for fear of his dreams, and eventually had slept soundly out of sheer exhaustion. In the warmth of a new day, it was easier to dismiss his panic last night. It was stupid, now he thought about it. He'd never felt this way about Alfred before, especially not when he was a colony, nor about any of his other charges. It was nothing. Just a fleeting moment of weakness. Everyone had silly thoughts like that, it meant nothing at all.

Feeling much better, he washed up his teacup and stepped out into the sunshine. A brisk walk was exactly what he needed. He stopped to smell the roses in his garden, and waved politely to the lady with the small boy approaching down the road.

"Good morning, Mrs Smith!"

"Good morning, Mr Kirkland!" Mrs Smith stopped and leaned over the fence to look at Arthur's carefully-cultivated front garden. "My goodness, what lovely roses!"

"Why, thank you. And this must be little William - he's shot up like a weed since I last saw him! How old are you now, lad? Six?"

"Seven," mumbled the curly-haired boy, looking bashfully at his shoes.

"Seven already? Time does fly! Now you be good for your mother, you hear?" said Arthur, reaching over the fence and ruffling the boy's hair.

Time stopped as his hand made contact with the child's head.

 _What the hell are you DOING?!_ his mind screamed at him.

_All I'm doing is patting his head! We're in public! His mother's right there! How can that be dangerous?_

_Slippery slope, Arthur. You can't let up on yourself. What if you were right? You can't wait until it's too late to start watching yourself, you know._

Arthur pulled away quickly, tensing up, as if the child had offered him a rattlesnake.

"Mr Kirkland! Are you quite well?"

"Ah, er, yes, dear lady - just thought I saw a wasp. Nothing to worry about, it's just a hoverfly," he babbled. "And now if you'll excuse me, I think I left the stove on." Arthur did a rapid about-face and walked as quickly as propriety allowed back into the house. He slammed the door behind him and immediately looked down at his crotch. Nothing untoward, but how much comfort was that, really?

 _I was lucky this time,_ he thought, wiping sweat from his brow. He looked out of the window, to see Mrs Smith and her son disappearing around the corner, much to his relief. No more awkwardness. No more potential temptation. Good. That wonderful little boy deserved his safety, he shouldn't be around someone like Arthur ...

He decided to take another shower.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a knock at the door. Arthur nearly jumped out of his well-scrubbed skin, before remembering Alfred had offered to drop in. He groaned. This was exactly what he did not need right now.

"Coming!" he yelled, yanking his clothes on as quickly as he could and running to the door. He dropped his dressing gown in a heap on the hallway floor, too distressed to bother hanging it up, and opened the door, face flushed and hair still damp. He took a deep breath, pulled the door open, and said "Yes?"

"Um, did I interrupt something?" said Alfred, struggling to balance a grocery bag full of fruit in his arms. "Can I at least come in and put this down? The handle broke, stupid cheap plastic bags ..."

Arthur, little as he wanted to see Alfred at this time, couldn't bear to refuse him. "Fine, come on in. Good grief, did you buy out the entire greengrocer's?"

"I didn't know what kinds you liked. I don't eat much fruit myself, so I can't judge." Alfred deposited the fruit on the coffee table and sorted out the bag; five apples of different kinds, a bunch of bananas, green and red grapes, an orange. "Should be something you like here, right?" he asked, blinking worriedly behind his glasses. "I can get something else if you want."

"Oh, thank you, this is perfect! You're too good to me, lad," said Arthur with a weak smile. He reached for a banana, but decided it was a bad idea in the circumstances and went for grapes; less disturbingly phallic. The grapes were sweet and popped satisfyingly between his teeth, and he smiled. Alfred beamed at him, and Arthur shifted uncomfortably.

"So are you feeling better?"

"Um, a little. Thanks for asking."

"Well, I've gotta be going, I have an appointment, but call me if you need anything, okay?" Alfred headed for the door.

"Oh, wait!" Arthur darted to the bookshelf and came back with a well-thumbed but well-cared-for book. "Would you like to borrow this? As a thanks."

"Your autographed copy of _Peter Pan_? You're trusting me with this? Thanks so much, I love this book!" Alfred held the book as if it was made of glass, and chuckled. "Guess I really am just a big kid at heart, eh?"

"Aha. Yes." Arthur forced a laugh. Really, he just wanted the book out of the house. The story's focus on children wasn't something he needed at the moment. And if it made Alfred happy into the bargain, why not? Alfred deserved to be happy.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur spent the rest of the day going through his library and all the other bookshelves scattered around the house. Just to make sure, he removed any book with child protagonists, of which he had an embarrassing number (English childrens' literature was the best in the world, of course, so he wasn't that ashamed). The _Chronicles of Narnia_ boxset, _Treasure Island_ , the _Alice_ books, Enid Blyton's works, _Swallows and Amazons_ , a few of the Dickens, most of the Roald Dahls, Pratchett's young-adult novels (at least he could keep the Discworlds), oh God, _Harry Potter_ as well, he'd miss those ... He looked guiltily at his Brian Jacques collection as he boxed it up; the poor man had only died earlier that year, and Arthur felt slightly treacherous getting rid of his books so soon, but needs must.

The books were a wrench to take off the shelves, but it wasn't like he was going to burn them; that idea revolted him nearly as much as his current worry did. He planned to take them all up to the attic, then rethought the idea; he'd still know the books were in the house, silently judging him. He'd lend some to Matthew, he could be trusted with books, and it was time Peter started reading more often.

Thinking of Peter made him check himself again. Nothing. Good. Maybe it was just Alfred who set him off like that. Well, better not take any chances, he'd get the books out of the house just in case. No sense in keeping something which might encourage this behaviour.

After going through all his shelves, his clothes and hair were dusty. Now he had to shower again. Good.

After that, he settled down to dinner. Cooking took his mind off the problem, but he found himself picking half-heartedly at the stew he'd made, thinking over it again and again ...

He leapt up from the table, spilling stew on the tablecloth. How selfish he'd been! As a mere human he could have simply suppressed it, but he had his people to worry about! He picked up the bundle of Sunday newspapers and started to comb through them, looking for any cases of children abused or killed or missing. Not much, but he couldn't bring himself to be relieved.

Rationally, of course, he knew it didn't work that way. Even if he had these unfortunate proclivities, it didn't follow that they'd increase in the general population. After all, most Russians weren't pipe-wielding lunatics, and not every American was an annoying loudmouth (though it seemed that way sometimes). Still.

The remaining stew was cold by the time he finished, but he ate it anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

He'd been doing okay so far - not great, but okay - but when he struggled out of an uneasy sleep the next morning, he realised it was Monday, and he was due back at work. That meant going out in public. In public with people who might notice him. Well, on the other hand, people seeing him meant he couldn't actually do anything dangerous. Yeah, he'd better go into work. Distract himself.

He picked at his breakfast, too distracted by the newspaper to care. No more new cases of child abuse. Good, he could control himself but he'd never forgive himself if he caused his citizens to start ... Then a hot shower, to clear his head. He was rapidly starting to run out of soap, and when the flush of the hot water died down he noticed he'd left deep red scratches all over himself with the brush. He hadn't realised he'd been scrubbing quite so hard. Still, his clothes would hide them until they faded. He dressed and packed his briefcase, and was ready to go. He looked out of the window before stepping out into the street; Mrs Smith was taking little William to school, so Arthur hid until they turned the corner, wanting to avoid an embarrassing confrontation. Once they were gone, he took a deep breath and stepped out into the sun, plastering a smile onto his face despite feeling like something that had crawled out from under a rock.

A normal human could not have walked from the little country village of Lower Tadfield to Central London in fifteen minutes, but Arthur was of course not a normal human. He'd actually been quite astonished in his youth when he found out humans couldn't do that. It wasn't exactly teleportation, or excessive speed; he just walked in the direction he wanted to go, and got there. He was England, and any part of his land was within his easy reach. He could have done it even faster, but he usually enjoyed the walk each morning. This time, though, he had to cut it down to ten minutes; he'd spent more time than usual combing the news, and it wouldn't do for the very representation of the nation to arrive late for work.

Work these days was rather dull; now he wielded a pen more often than a sword. Still, one had to move with the times, and it was necessary work. Gone were the days when the nation personifications could freeload off their people. Most of what he did involved polite discussions in meeting rooms or over the phone with other nations, or human ambassadors who may or may not know exactly who he was, and filling out reams of paperwork about the aforementioned discussions. He really did enjoy the work, deep down; he was doing his people good, and he got to make good use of his sharp wit. He hoped very much he'd be able to keep up that wit in his current state.

"Good morning, Mr Cameron!" he said to his boss when he arrived, the cheer in his voice a little forced.

"Arthur! Good morning," the Prime Minister said, looking at him oddly. "Are you feeling well? You sound a little odd."

"Um, a bit of a summer cold, sir, nothing important," Arthur blustered. _Oh God, he's going to find out ... no, I'm being ridiculous now, he might be my boss but he can't read my mind._

"Are you sure? If you're not well, say so." Mr Cameron asked, concerned. "It's no good to us if you're ill."

Arthur flinched. With all the powers of a nation come restrictions; specifically, they cannot answer a direct question or order from their mortal "bosses" with a direct lie.

"I didn't sleep well last night," he said truthfully, managing to evade the question. "But I think I'm well enough to work."

He was right; the day went as well as any other as he happily lost himself in his work, though he did make his excuses and hide in the bathroom when a secretary started passing around pictures of her grandchildren. He didn't need to involve his co-workers' children in this, it was bad enough with his own.


	6. Chapter 6

The next couple of weeks went perfectly well, Arthur almost forgetting about his fears except for a tense half-hour of newspaper-reading each morning, but everything went to Hell one Saturday. A man who has had a twenty-three-year-old body for centuries is still technically a young man, and as such certain biological functions cannot be put off indefinitely. Arthur woke up from another restless night to a very obvious reminder of that fact distorting the blankets. He sighed. Oh well, waste not. He reached under the blankets and took himself in hand, then stopped, heart racing. What the heck had he been dreaming about to cause this? He couldn't remember dreaming anything, but ... No, he couldn't fret about that. He needed to clear his head, and this could help.

He stopped, seconds into it, and cursed. All he could think about was Alfred, his mind flickering back and forth between the adult Alfred and the child. Both had the same smile. _Oh God, I really am far gone if I'm thinking about my little boy_ now _... I'm disgusting. What would Alfred think of me?_ He felt tears rise in his eyes, and rolled over and punched the mattress.

He'd lost his erection by now. Probably for the best; no sense encouraging himself. He fell out of bed, wobbled to the bathroom, and vomited again. In the shower he scrubbed his hands and arms up to the elbows with his nailbrush, leaving deep red marks on his pale skin.

As he stepped awkwardly out of the shower, he decided that also applying the nailbrush to more sensitive areas might not have been the best idea. Then again, it wasn't like he didn't deserve some pain, he'd have happily inflicted far worse on any other person who even contemplated hurting his colonies ... Well, maybe eventually he'd be able to keep his mind on more acceptable topics, but he'd better abandon his attempts for a while. At least the sting of hot water and scrubbing brush had cleared his head.

The phone rang, distracting him.

"England, hi!" said the boy on the other end of the line, addressing Arthur by his title, as nations usually did in non-intimate conversations.

"Hello, who is this?"

"It's Canada!"

"... Oh! That Canada!" Arthur slapped his forehead. He did keep forgetting poor Matthew. "Sorry, line interference," he lied blatantly. "How are you?"

"Great! I just wanted to thank you for the books you sent me. But aren't I a little old for most of these?"

"Oh, there's no age limit on enjoying good literature!" Arthur laughed faux-heartily. He wasn't keen to talk to Matthew at the moment; he'd raised him along with Alfred. If Alfred had been in danger, so had Matthew. "Considering how old we all are, we'd be in rather a bind if there was, yes?"

Matthew giggled. "I guess. Oh, hey, _The Phoenix and the Carpet_! I remember this one! Thank you!"

Arthur tried not to concentrate on his groin. Was he reacting? Oh no, he could definitely sense _something_ ... maybe that was just because he was paying attention to it now. Or maybe not.

"Well, I'm afraid I'm a bit busy at the moment, so I'll have to cut you off. Shall I call you back later?" he said cheerily, with no intention of doing so. This time it would be for Matthew's own good if Arthur forgot him.

"Ah, sorry for interrupting. Well, thanks again, see you at the next meeting!" Matthew hung up, and Arthur sighed with relief and dropped the phone, still examining himself. He was pretty sure he was making a fuss over nothing this time - simply hearing his boys' voices shouldn't cause a noticeable reaction - but he still couldn't help but check. _Just one more time to make sure._


	7. Chapter 7

Peter, as usual, chose the worst possible time to come over to visit. This time it was exponentially worse. Arthur actually yelped when he opened the door to find the grinning child on the doorstep. Peter, in turn, jumped, nearly falling over backwards.

"Whoa! What did I do?"

"Nothing, nothing!" Arthur clutched his chest. "Just ... wasn't expecting you."

"Who the heck _were_ you expecting?" Peter asked, still stunned. "You looked like you'd seen a ghost!"

"No, my ghosts tend to walk through walls. Might have been a goblin, though. Well, come on in."

Peter's overgrown eyebrows knitted together in concern. "You mentioned goblins and didn't tell me I look like one. Are you okay?"

 _No._ "Yes. Do you want to come in?" _Please don't._ Peter did, skipping merrily over to the sofa and slamming himself down on it in a way that made Arthur cringe. "Stop breaking my furniture, you little savage!"

Peter shrugged and kicked his legs back and forth. "Well, Dad said I should come over and thank you for the books and stuff you sent me." Peter's tone implied heavily that he did not appreciate them as much as Matthew had. He'd never been much for books or even TV, preferring to spend his time working with his hands; constant repairs to the Sealand fort had instilled that habit in him. Arthur was far less contemptuous of this than he pretended - learning useful skills never hurt anyone.

Arthur kept his eyes fixed on Peter's hat, not feeling up to looking him in the eye. "You're welcome. Well, you came all this way, would you like a drink?" He didn't want the child in the house any longer than necessary, but politeness was so heavily ingrained in him he couldn't not offer.

Peter did want a drink, and so Arthur ended up sitting in the armchair furthest from the sofa, making awkward conversation as Peter slurped his lemonade and scattered biscuit crumbs everywhere. Arthur was too nervous to even feel annoyed at the mess. He caught a glimpse of chocolate smeared on Peter's lip, and instead of lecturing the boy about eating tidily, mentally berated himself for looking at the boy's mouth as if he'd been intentionally leering at him. Peter noticed nothing odd about Arthur, but glanced curiously at the bookshelf, which was still full of accusing gaps where the books had been.

"Um, England, you said you were getting rid of those books because you had no room. There's plenty of room there."

"Er, well, I was going to rearrange the library, get some new books. I wanted to make sure there'd be room in advance."

Peter looked at him. "You're weird."

Mercifully, Peter got up to leave soon afterward. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, before realising Peter was reaching his arms out. He almost never hugged Arthur, but of course he chose today of all days to do so, and Arthur couldn't refuse without making him suspicious. Bracing himself, he wrapped his arms as loosely around Peter as he could, making sure their lower bodies did not come into contact. His body did not react, but he still couldn't relax. As soon as he waved Peter off, Arthur ran for the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge. He didn't drink that often, he knew what it did to him, but now he needed it ...

_NO! You can't get drunk, you idiot! You're barely in control of yourself as it is! If you're drunk, God knows what you'll end up doing!_

Arthur thought it over, staring at the bottle. Before he could change his mind, he opened the fridge, took out the remaining bottles, poured all their contents down the sink, and threw them into the bin hard enough that he could hear them smash.

He slumped on the sofa, pressing his forehead into the armrest, and sobbed, feeling both filthy and pathetic. "I'm turning into a monster and I can't even bloody _drink_ anymore ..."

Desperate for something to distract himself, he picked up a half-finished piece of embroidery and started jabbing the needle at it much too fast, making uncharacteristically clumsy stitches. The needle pierced his finger, and he looked curiously at the blood. The puncture closed instantly, but the sting remained a little longer. Oddly, he felt a little better. _Hmm._

Carefully, he pushed the needle into his finger again.


	8. Chapter 8

"Angleterre, if I may ask – what’s wrong with your hands?"

Arthur, leaning against the corridor wall, nearly dropped his papers. "What d’you mean?"

Francis pointed and wrinkled his nose. "Well, look. Your skin's so dry it's peeling off! They look disgusting."

Arthur looked. _I know they're disgusting, they're attached to me. They nearly hurt my boys._ Now he thought about it, though, they did look rather red and chapped. Maybe he'd been washing them too much. They'd been itching, but he'd dismissed that as part of the urge to wash them again.

Francis tutted and produced a tube of something floral-smelling from his briefcase. "And it's not even winter yet! Do you want to use my hand cream? It's not done to go into a world conference in such poor condition, you know!"

"Rose-scented? What are you, a fourteen-year-old girl?" Arthur snapped half-heartedly, not even bothering to protest as Francis took his hand and started smearing lotion on it. Suddenly, Francis' finger met the scratch between his fingers, and he winced in pain. He'd taken to carrying a needle around in his pocket and digging it into his hand every time he thought of harming any of his children. As a nation, such minor injuries should have healed within minutes (after all, he'd suffered nothing worse than severe headaches when a small meteor had landed on him during the war), but he'd been opening the wounds over and over during the past three weeks, and apparently this caused the healing process to slow. Francis stopped and frowned.

"How did you manage to scratch yourself that badly?" he asked. Arthur's mind raced, trying to come up with an explanation, until Francis suddenly laughed and said "I didn't realise you were that clumsy."

"Clumsy nothing, you gutless frog! I've out-fought you plenty of times and I can do it again!"

"Well, someone's grumpier than usual! When did you last get laid?"

Arthur flinched visibly, pulling his hand away, and weakly muttered "You better not be offering." Francis may have had a point; he still hadn't successfully masturbated for weeks. Trying to force himself not to think about children in general or Alfred in particular always turned out counterproductive, and he didn't dare simply let his mind wander. He rubbed the lotion in himself, not wanting to leave his hands sticky. It actually felt good to care for himself. He'd been keeping up his personal hygiene as usual, but since he'd started turning the water too hot and scrubbing too hard, the pleasure had gone out of it.

Much to Arthur's horror, Alfred chose this moment to appear, greeting him with a yell of "Good morning!" and a rib-shattering hug. Arthur struggled free, with extreme difficulty and a fearsome blush. Actually, the hug had felt very nice, it had been too long since he'd allowed himself physical contact with anyone, and Alfred's arms were wonderfully warm ... _SHIT! No!_ Unable to take out his needle in front of the others, he clenched his left fist and dug his thumbnail into the wound, letting the pain stabilise him.

"Good morning, Alfred," he said stiffly.

Alfred blinked. "Dude, I haven't seen you in months! Not even a smile?"

Arthur forced a grin. "Sorry, not been sleeping well. I'll be fine."

"You don't sound fine," Alfred started to say, then glanced at his watch. "Crap, time to go in! C'mon, guys, let's go set up so I can get first dibs on talking!" He scurried into the room. Arthur and Francis followed, Arthur sitting at the opposite end of the table. Francis gave him a strange look.

"The lighting's better here, okay?" Arthur snapped. Francis shrugged and went back to his own paperwork.

Arthur dug at his scratch with his fingernails. _I get this from Francis, I swear. I remember what he was like with the Italy boys. Well, he doesn't seem to have warped them, so at least I'm probably not going to spread it myself._ He smiled weakly. It was rather comforting to have someone he could still hold in contempt. Still, Francis had a point; he'd buy some decent hand cream. If Francis was noticing, it was only a matter of time before someone else did. Someone like Alfred.


	9. Chapter 9

Back in his own house two days later, Arthur chuckled to himself as he made the tea, thinking about the meeting. Shakily as it had started, it hadn't been that bad; he'd enjoyed the distraction, even if he had been part of the more entertaining parts. Specifically, when he tried to avoid Alfred, Michelle - another colony he'd raised, along with Francis - had tried to greet him with a hug. He'd pushed her away, forgetting that she wasn't as strong or heavy as Alfred, sending her flying and causing her to land in Yekaterina's ample cleavage. When she'd tried to extract herself, she'd managed to catch the poor woman's blouse buttons in her hair-ribbons and rip the buttons off. The meeting had had to stop for a while as various nations mopped up nosebleeds, others comforted the hysterical Yekaterina, and the rest tried to stop Ivan protecting his sister's honour with a pipe-wielding rampage. Now he was no longer in danger of a beating, and Michelle had luckily assumed he'd only pushed her away because she'd surprised him, Arthur had to laugh.

It had also been a comfort to see his former colonies getting along well. Alfred had gone with Berwald, Tino, and Peter to get ice cream after the meeting, poor Matthew had finally been noticed by Miguel and taken out for a drink, and Horace had been showing Michelle some new electronic gadget which seemed to interest her. It was rather a relief; they didn't need him there all the time anymore. He didn't have to be near them, which meant he couldn't hurt them.

Arthur opened the newspaper, and his good mood evaporated. No, no, no, this couldn't be happening. A child was missing, not fifty miles from Arthur's Lower Tadfield house. He'd never met the family face to face, but he was England and they were his people; if he concentrated, he could picture them. The lost little girl in particular, a chubby smiling blonde with freckles, eight years old. Her name was Violet Porter.

 _I did this,_ a treacherous voice whispered in his mind.

Not directly, of course - he wasn't far gone enough to think he'd literally stolen the child himself. But he was the United bloody Kingdom, everything that happened here was his responsibility ... And, sadly, his powers didn't extend to finding the girl.

He had no desire to do himself serious damage on the level of wrist-slitting - it'd heal up easily enough, since he was effectively immortal, but it could take long enough to fully heal that someone might see the marks, which would be hard to explain away. Still, the gentle, brief sting of the needle wouldn't be enough for this. He took his house key and stabbed the teeth into his hand, again and again and again. No blood, but the pain was strong enough to help. He slipped the key between his fingers and dug it into the soft skin there, grimacing at the fresh sting. His pulse and breathing slowed a little.

He giggled weakly to himself as he twisted the key in his palm again, scoring a red circle. _"Draw a circle, that's the Earth, draw a circle, that's the Earth ..."_ Well, it had fewer side effects than binge-drinking. Maybe he should have started this sooner. He looked at his hands, the marks already fading but the nerves still tingling painfully. It wasn't quite enough. He punched the kitchen wall again and again. He wasn't anywhere close to Alfred's strength, but he was still stronger than a normal man, and the plaster shattered under his fists, leaving him scraping his knuckles bloody on the bricks.

"I deserve this," he said, almost casually. It was actually a relief to say it aloud. "I deserve everything I can throw at myself."

It wasn't a happy thought at all, but he started to laugh again. He slid limply down the wall, knelt on the floor, and laughed until his sides hurt worse than his hands.


	10. Chapter 10

"Hey, France, have you noticed something funny going on with England these past few months?" Alfred pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, as his frown had made them slide down. "Not like funny ha-ha, I mean weird."

Francis smirked. "When compared to what? This is England, you know."

"Well, I mean like he's avoiding me! When I talked to him in the last few meetings he didn't even try to argue with me, but I noticed he's still arguing with you. He seems half-asleep all the time, he leaves the second we're done, and he makes excuses if I wanna drop in on him! And Finland tells me he's been avoiding him and Sweden and Sealand as well - he says he sent Sealand a few boxes of old books and movies back in summer and then stopped calling. And at the last meeting I noticed his hands were all red and scratched up." Alfred's eyes widened. "D'you think he's planning to kill himself or something? If he was he wouldn't still be showing up to meetings, right? People who wanna kill themselves don't keep getting involved in solving world problems, right? _Can_ nations kill themselves?"

Francis laughed. "Ah, mon Amerique, I doubt you have anything to fear there!" He threw an arm around Alfred's shoulders, smirking sleazily. "You see, poor Angleterre is heartbroken!"

"Heartbroken?"

"Of course! How can you not see that he is pining for you? Every meeting, I watch his eyes follow you, and he looks away like a blushing bride every time you glance at him! Ah, you cruel, cruel boy! How can you toy with his heart so?" Francis draped himself over Alfred and sobbed melodramatically, as if he was the heartbroken one.

 _"What?!"_ Alfred's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "You- I- What the fuck? Ew! I know you can't get laid, but stop projecting your issues onto us! And would you stop touching me?"

Francis backed off, hands raised. "Non, non, Alfred, I really think he is! Do you not see? The lovestruck often withdraw from the world, as none but their love is good enough, yet they dare not speak to their love either for fear of a final rejection!"

"You really think England's in love with me?" Alfred sighed. "Dude, you say something like that every time someone starts acting weird. Remember when you said Russia was finally returning Belarus' feelings and it turned out he was just trying to sneak that alligator into her room?"

"Fine, so I was wrong that time. But at least entertain the possibility, mon cher!"

"Why would being in love make his hands get scratched up?"

"I don't know! The ways of English love are strange," Francis sighed dramatically. "Maybe he's just so distracted by thoughts of you that he is becoming clumsy. Ah, how adorable!"

America nodded sceptically. "Yeah, maybe I should just go talk to him ..."

"Hello."

Both male nations nearly jumped out of their skins as Natalya loomed up behind them. She was smiling, or at least showing her teeth, and clutching a leash which appeared to be attached to a very disconcerted-looking adult male alligator. She looked soppily at it as if it were a puppy.

"Have you seen my brother? I have to thank him for bringing me my darling little Fluffy."

Alfred and Francis fled.


End file.
